Canterlot High School cafeteria—loud, crowded, and thankfully the setting to only fifty minutes of Twilight’s daily schedule.
She appreciated the routine she’d become accustomed to after the first few weeks of high school, simple as it was. A sandwich in one hand, a pencil in the other, and coursework spread across the table made for a familiar setting amidst the chaos of lunch period. There were still a few variables in the process, such as if other students wanted to use the rest of the table or what she brought to eat, but Twilight figured that the core experience of lunch had finally been perfected to be productive—exactly how she liked it.
She took a bite of her sandwich and wrote down the answer to another problem on her worksheet with neat, slow strokes. With over half an hour left in the period she could afford to take her time.
Twilight managed to finish two more questions and three more bites in relative peace. But just as she started reading the last problem a shadow fell across her papers and interrupted her train of thought. “Hey,” someone said from behind. Their voice rang high and raspy, and Twilight immediately recognized who they were without even looking up.
“Rainbow Dash,” she replied. Her pencil scratched out another line to punctuate her clipped response.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that.” Rainbow ignored the polite way out of the conversation and instead sat down next to Twilight, her backpack dangling off one shoulder and nearly onto the floor. “Whatcha doin’?”
Twilight pursed her lips and tapped the worksheet with the end of her pencil. “Homework.”
“During lunch?”
“It’s efficient.” She took the second-to-last bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “It means I don’t have to take it home.”
Rainbow scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue. “That’s so lame. You’re just wasting the only good part of school on some stupid homework.”
Sighing, Twilight finally looked up to fix Rainbow with a pointed glare. “What do you want?” she asked curtly. “I thought you didn’t want to be seen with people outside your ‘coolness criteria’.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did that trio of goons you hang around put you up to this?”
“What?” Rainbow laughed nervously, and her eyes most definitely did not drift across the cafeteria to a table occupied by three boys snickering back at them. “No way. I, uh, just wanted to see what you were doing.”
“Uh-huh.” Twilight raised an eyebrow. “And we were such good friends before this.”
“I—” Rainbow sputtered for words, but didn’t manage to find them. The ensuing silence then seemed to take the wind out of her sails and she slumped her shoulders in defeat. “Ugh, fine. Those guys kinda dared me to go talk to you—I guess they forgot you went to our grade school.” She paused. “But, uh, I can’t really blame ‘em. You’re sorta like a super-awkward ghost.”
“Wow. I’m flattered.”
“Well it’s kinda true, y’know,” Rainbow muttered, just the slightest bit indignant at being called out. “You never talk to anyone, and if you’re not doing homework you go and stick your nose in a book. Of your own free will!”
It didn’t take much social proficiency to see that Rainbow had some very strong thoughts on that particular topic. Rather than argue—and considering the sanctity of reading was on the line it was very tempting—Twilight just shrugged and finished the last bite of her sandwich, then turned away from the conversation and back to her work.
But that just seemed to irritate Rainbow even more.
“Oh, and of course math is more important than the actual human trying to talk to you.” She kicked the table hard, and Twilight had to quickly steady her water bottle before it toppled over. The students at the other end of the bench shot Rainbow dirty looks, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Twilight shrugged again, still not looking up. “I don’t have anything else to add.”
Rainbow made a noise halfway between a grunt and a scream. “God,” she hissed, “you’re so weird. You’re really freakin’ weird, Twilight.”
“Mhm.” Name-calling always stung a bit, but it wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before.
“Hoops was right—you’re really just lost in your own head, huh?” She poked her index finger aggressively into Twilight’s arm. “Or maybe you’re a robot?”
“Maybe.”
“No, you’re too much of a dork. My phone can carry more of a conversation than you can.” Rainbow poked her again, then slung her bag over her shoulder and stood up. “Like, maybe try reality on for size. Talk to people. Make a friend. Be normal.”
“Sure.”
“Hey, I’m just tryna look out for you. ‘Cause otherwise, in four years you’ll be valedic-whatever of a class who doesn’t give a shit.”
In response Twilight nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sure hope you do.” With that parting remark Rainbow spun on her heel and strode off, calling out over her shoulder, “See you around, egghead!”
That’s a new one. Twilight frowned down at her worksheet, an odd sort of feeling welling up in the pit of her stomach. One of the girls at the end of the table giggled, and Twilight just managed to catch the word egghead pass from lips to ear.
She felt their gazes burn her temples and forced herself to keep quiet and keep her head down—nothing good would come of speaking up. It’s no worse than anything else I’ve been called before, she reasoned. Just leave it alone.
The answer to the last problem was seventeen. Twilight wrote the number down to the tune of teasing snickers and words whispered behind her back.
The maple leaves fell one month into the school year, blanketing streets and lawns alike in shades of red. But then with rain and time red turned to brown, and the once-beautiful sight became a mudstained mess.
Twilight liked autumn. Until the red started leaking inside as well.
Egghead, the nail polish spelled in crimson strokes. The bright colour stood out against the grey of her locker, the letters getting smaller and slanted at the end as the writer ran out of space. Twilight took a moment to process it, acutely aware of the way other students flowed around her, whispers and giggles and stray elbows bouncing off her back.
She eventually pulled open her locker with a resigned sigh, debating whether to risk dropping off her lunch or not—someone had stolen the lock a week prior and she hadn’t yet figured out an excuse to ask her parents for another—only to be instantly met by a shower of papers spilling onto the muddy floor.
I left a binder behind again, Twilight realized when the papers settled. Frustration welled up behind her eyes, both at herself and at whoever had pulled all her notes out and set them up between her locker door.
Inhale. Exhale.
A few deep breaths numbed Twilight’s frustration down to apathy. She knelt to gather her things, though already a good half of the papers were wet or trodden upon with dirty shoes. Someone nearly stepped on her hand as she reached for a sheet that had slid into the centre of the hall, and another person’s bag smacked into the back of her head when she pushed all the papers together into a single, soggy stack.
But Twilight still kept her head down and her mouth shut. They were just one set of notes; she could rewrite them if she needed them. Her school-loaned textbooks were safe in her—admittedly heavy—backpack, and she’d already learned to keep anything valuable on her person or at home altogether.
So it wasn’t a big deal. She could handle it.
The murmuring voices in the hall quieted behind her back as she peeled one of the papers off of the pile. Then, before she could salvage anything else, a dirty sneaker suddenly stomped down on the centre of her notes and ground them into the floor.
“What’s wrong, egghead?” a familiar voice jeered. “Didja lose something?”
As if things couldn’t get worse.
Twilight didn’t have to look up to recognize her tormentors. Hoops spoke with a teasing drawl, masculine by nature and teenage by grating cracks; Score could never contain his wheezy snickers behind his massive palms; and Dumb-Bell lived up to his unfortunate name—Twilight knew the laces on the shoe crushing her papers weren’t undone by choice.
Her heartbeat rose to the back of her throat. Twilight didn’t have to attempt a reply to know that anxiety had already choked away her voice.
So instead she froze, and said nothing.
“Aw,” Hoops said, the nasal undertones of his voice cruel and mocking. He took a step forward so his shoes entered Twilight’s vision and his body cast a shadow across her face. “Looks like egghead’s gonna crack.”
“Heh,” Dumb-Bell snorted. “I get it. Crack. Like an egg.”
Twilight still said nothing; did nothing. And as Score stepped up to complete the makeshift triangle that pinned her between them and the lockers she lowered her gaze and waited for the inevitable blades of insults to split her skin.
Except they never came.
The trio didn’t even manage to get a word out before someone behind Hoop defused the situation with a single question: “What on earth is goin’ on here?”
Interventions didn’t normally arrive in stetson hats with southern accents, but Twilight was willing to take what she could get.
“AJ!” Hoops’s personality flipped like a switch, going from bully to bootlicker in an instant. He pivoted his stance to lean against the closest locker with one arm and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Why, we’re just spending some time with the smartest student in our grade. What’s up?”
But Applejack didn’t fall for it. Her gaze trailed down to where Dumb-Bell’s sneaker remained planted on top of Twilight’s notes. “It sure don’t look like quality time to me.”
The sneaker quickly pulled back. “Uh,” Dumb-Bell grunted. “Was an accident.”
“Yeah! It’s not our fault the egghead’s such a klutz,” Score added with a tone that suggested exactly the opposite.
“...Right.” Applejack glanced over to Twilight, her brow furrowing slightly as she did, but she didn’t press any further. When she looked away Twilight bit her tongue and swallowed down the urge to speak up. “Well, whatever’s happened, you three’d best hurry up. Dash told me to kick y’all in gear so you make it to the field for warmups.”
Hoops pulled a face. “Ugh. Why does she even care about that?”
“‘Cause last time you were late she got stuck with Wiz Kid,” Applejack deadpanned. She raised one eyebrow and said, “Do you really wanna put her through that again?”
“Fine.” Hoops reluctantly stepped away, flicking one hand over his shoulder to signal the other two to follow. “We’ll see ya at lunch, AJ.”
Applejack returned the gesture with a half-hearted wave. “Later.” She waited for the boys to disappear into the rapidly-thinning crowd before she looked back down to where Twilight remained kneeling beside her open locker. “You’d best get goin’ too, Twilight.”
How long had it been since Twilight had heard her name pass a classmate’s lips? It seemed foreign compared to her new names of freak and weirdo and robot and egghead.
“Yeah,” she replied automatically, her brain still trying to find a definition for the feelings clawing at her chest. “I will.”
And no matter how loud Twilight’s mind begged for help, Applejack could not hear words formed from silence—and in that silence she chose to leave the elephant in the room alone.
Just like she had every time before.
You have to handle this, Twilight reminded herself, even though each day seemed to make her burden that much more impossible to bear. She wadded her sopping notes up and trashed them as the bell rang through a silent hallway, Applejack’s pity-filled, distant eyes still burning against her skin.
Heads down, mouths quiet—that was all they could do. Just two passing ships unwilling to ever rock their boats.
December. Lunch period of the last Monday before winter break. Slightly snowy; definitely cold.
And the worst day of Twilight Sparkle’s life.
She should have realized something wasn’t right as soon as Hoops sat down across from her—no one had eaten lunch at her table since she’d ceased to be Twilight. No Score; no Dumb-Bell. Just Hoops and a hundred alarm bells ringing on deaf ears.
Slowly, Twilight lowered her pencil and stared.
What does he want now?
Hoops folded his hands together on the lunch table and smiled with all his teeth. “Hey, egghead.”
Anxiety began to creep up Twilight’s spine. “Hello,” she said quietly, her mouth suddenly dry as chalk.
“Whatcha up to?”
The question was innocent, but Twilight couldn’t help but hesitate to answer. “Just homework,” she finally said. Then: “Did you want me to move?”
“What?” Hoops seemed genuinely surprised at her response. He leaned forward on his elbows and shook his head, his brow creased so slightly that Twilight almost believed his concern was real. “Naw, you’re fine. I’m here to talk to you.”
Twilight blinked. Had she heard him right? “Me?”
“You see anyone else here?” His smile somehow grew even wider. “Of course not.” He flicked his bangs to the side and made eye contact for the first time. Something malicious lurked behind his irises, but Twilight didn’t have the courage to call him on it. “I’m basically doing you a favour, egghead. You should be thanking me or whatever.”
He waited.
“Thanks,” Twilight whispered.
“There we go!” Hoops kept staring at her, despite how his hair was slowly sliding back into his eyes, but Twilight couldn’t withstand the terrible unease radiating from the situation any longer. She ducked her head and started shuffling her papers back together, her heartbeat pounding in her ears—and not just her ears, but in her throat and chest and the tips of her fingers.
Fight or flight; freeze or fawn. Twilight had thawed, and she knew she had to leave now.
She shoved her pencil and papers into her backpack haphazardly at the same time that Hoops clicked his tongue. His smirk faded into a frown with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “Leaving so soon?”
“I...” Her throat closed up, so she nodded instead.
“And here I thought I was doin’ a good deed by burying the hatchet.” Hoops leaned back on his bench and crossed his arms. “Guess there’s no point if you won’t even hear me out.”
Twilight should have ignored him.
She should have ignored his too-sweet smiles and too-dark eyes.
She should have ignored the lie he spun solely to keep her back to the cafeteria and her eyes on him.
But she didn’t. And because she hesitated, Twilight had her back turned when a pair of footsteps pounded up behind her—and she knew too late that it was a setup, just like always, all at the hands of Hoops.
Something smacked against Twilight’s head hard enough to knock her glasses down to the end of her nose. A cold and slimy substance dripped down the back of her neck.
“Check out the egghead!” Score’s voice pierced through the air from Twilight’s left, louder than anything else in the cafeteria. The other students’ chatter died away as she numbly reached up to touch where she’d been hit. Her fingertips came back yellow.
Someone giggled.
Twilight heard a cellphone snap a picture.
She shouldn’t have turned around, but her body started moving before she could stop herself, twisting in place to try and process what was going on. She turned, and Twilight found that past Score and Dumb-Bell hundreds of eyes and phone cameras peered back.
Everyone at every table was watching.
Watching, and doing nothing at all to help.
And as Twilight’s anxiety escalated past every threshold she’d ever known—a choking ice in her lungs, a staccato beat in her blood—something squeezed at the centre of her chest, a terrible pressure that bore down on her heart and blackened the edges of her vision.
And then the world went quiet.
Hoops said something to her, but Twilight didn’t hear. Suddenly, she was numb to sight and sound. Her body moved on autopilot, jerking to its feet and grabbing her bag with one trembling hand.
She felt the egg yolk drip down her forehead and suppressed the urge to cry.
And Twilight remembered later, when she allowed herself to recall the events in the cafeteria, how Hoops had taunted her as she’d walked away. She didn’t remember all of the names and slurs he’d yelled at her, but she would never forget how his final insult had been cut off by a fist to the face.
She didn’t see the fight, but afterward her brain pieced together the clues that her anxiety had hidden while she lived it—two chairs scraping across the tile floor, Score’s whimpers drowned out by Applejack’s furious voice and a stinging slap, and Rainbow snatching back her egg carton from Dumb-Bell before socking Hoops across the jaw.
(Rainbow had supplied the ammo, knowingly or not. Twilight had figured that out later when a morbid sort of curiosity had her sneak onto Celestia’s computer to read about all five suspensions.)
But in the moment she knew nothing of the brawl breaking out behind her back. The numbing pressure drove her through the hall with stilted, trembling steps, whispering in her ear to run away, get out, leave everything behind.
Her memories stalled after that. It was only after a worried hand gently touched her shoulder that Twilight felt herself return to reality, still drowning in a silent panic that stole away her voice.
Mrs Mayor’s hand was very thin, Twilight managed to think. She didn’t understand anything coming out of the secretary’s mouth, but the small part of her vision not consumed by static saw that her words were quick and her eyes were scared.
Then Twilight recognized four syllables—Ce-les-ti-a—and she realized that her secrets were out.
She didn’t protest when Mrs Mayor guided her to the staff wing and pounded frantically on Celestia’s door. The strange numbness still had control over her body, and Twilight didn’t know how to get it back.
“Do they know now?”
Twilight broke the silence halfway through the drive home. Her voice had returned earlier, but she could hardly bear knowing the answer to the question she’d finally asked.
Celestia tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Her eyes stayed locked on the road ahead. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be a secret.”
A defeated laugh escaped Twilight’s lips before she could stop herself. “Who would want to be stuck in your shadow?” she said, bitterness drenching every one of her words. “I just wanted to pretend I had a chance to fit in—to be just me. Not ‘Principal Celestia’s niece’.”
“Twilight—”
“Guess I can’t pretend now.”
The muscle in Celestia’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. Before she could reply Twilight rolled her head toward the passenger window, not caring how the egg drying in her hair rubbed off on the leather seat.
Pinkie Pie sat on the edge of the bathtub, and for a moment Twilight realized that something wasn’t right.
“Hi Twilight.” The greeting was subdued, if not hesitant—an odd thing to come from Pinkie.
“Hello,” Twilight replied automatically. Her brain overwrote her unease with numbness, and she turned to the mirror above the sink like she was supposed to.
Dried egg caked the top of her head, shell and all. She reached up to touch it and found that her hair crunched beneath her fingers. Hair wasn’t supposed to crunch. Eggs weren't supposed to be smashed on heads. She leaned over the sink to press her forehead against the mirror and exhaled a shaky breath. The surface of the mirror fogged. An overwhelming wrongness prickled behind her eyes.
Then Pinkie spoke again: “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not to you,” Twilight said sullenly. She winced at how harsh she sounded and added, “Sorry. I’ve got a lot going on.”
“I know,” Pinkie said, and for some reason the matter-of-fact tone of her voice sent a ripple of disbelief down Twilight’s spine.
“Look,” she said slowly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but someone like you wouldn’t understand.”
Pinkie didn’t seem offended by that. “Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re happy,” Twilight replied. “And I am not.”
The numbness nudged at the back of Twilight’s head, a pointed reminder that she had a part to play. She turned away from Pinkie and pulled the mirror open so she could scan the shelves behind. Need something stronger than soap.
Pinkie waited a few moments before she spoke again, still carrying that knowing tone within her voice. “You know that phrase everyone says?” she said, content to talk over Twilight’s movement. “‘It gets better’?”
Of course Twilight had heard it. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and grabbed a bottle from the cabinet.
“I’m gonna let you in on a secret, Twilight. It doesn’t.”
That was new.
Slowly, Twilight turned on her heel, her curiosity allowing her to break out of her motions and go off script. “It doesn’t?”
“It doesn’t,” Pinkie echoed.
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Twilight said flatly.
“Well, that’s because I’m not done.” Now that she had Twilight’s attention, Pinkie shifted over on the edge of the tub and patted the space beside her with one hand. “I’m not gonna make you talk if you don’t want to,” she said, “but maybe I can talk instead. If you’ll listen, I mean.”
Twilight stared for a few seconds. Somehow she found the strength to put the bottle in her hand down beside the sink. “Okay,” she said, and stepped over to Pinkie. Her motions felt floaty; weightless, almost. “Listening’s fine.”
She sat down, and the numbness faded along with her script.
“So,” Pinkie said once Twilight had settled. “Things don’t get better.” She kicked her feet gently as she spoke, her heels tapping against the side of the tub in an offbeat rhythm only she could follow. “That’s what Pa always told me. Isn’t that awful?”
Twilight wasn’t sure if she was supposed to agree. She offered a nod. “Yes?”
“Yes! I mean, what kind of parent tells their kids that?” Pinkie scrunched up her nose and said, “It’s like, come on! Did I peak at the tender age of four, when I was still blissfully unaware of the universe and its harsh reality?”
“I... what?”
“Junior kindergarten starts at four, Twilight,” she explained. Then she pointed one finger up to her hair. “And kids are really, really mean.”
...Oh.
Twilight shifted uncomfortably, both because of the narrow ledge and because of what she was listening to. But before she could figure out what to say Pinkie beat her to it, a soft smile on her face.
“I’m going somewhere with this, I promise. ‘Cause you know what Pa would say every morning I helped Ma set up her flat iron?”
Twilight was pretty sure she knew the answer to that.
“He’d tell me things don’t get better,” Pinkie repeated. She made a face again, exaggerating her irritation with a dash of disgust. “And y’know, the first time he said that, I couldn’t believe it! I just about started bawling my eyes out before the second day of school.”
It was a bleak mindset, Twilight agreed. She considered herself a realist, even a pessimist sometimes, and the phrase hadn’t helped her feel any better—so how much worse would a child react? And to hear that from your own father?
Although, she couldn’t say she felt worse. And it was easier to listen than it was to talk.
Maybe Pinkie did understand after all.
“I heard that phrase every other morning for months,” she continued. “And I hated it! I hated having to get up early, I hated sitting still enough that Ma wouldn’t burn me, and I hated that it didn’t make a difference.” She pulled one of the longer strands of hair that framed her face so it stretched taut, then released. “They just found something else to laugh at instead.”
Twilight felt a lump form in her throat. She swallowed hard to clear it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’m not done.” Pinkie’s heel-kicking slowed to a stop. She turned in place to look at Twilight and raised one hand to point directly at Twilight’s heart. “Because every time Ma finished with my hair, Pa would then sit me down on the edge of the counter and tell me the rest of the saying.”
The rest of it?
“Things don’t get better,” Pinkie said, then smiled. “You just get stronger.”
And Twilight suddenly realized that she’d written Pinkie off far too early, because she’d expected hollow cheers and well-wishes just to receive understanding like a punch to the gut.
“And I did,” Pinkie finished, and Twilight couldn’t help but notice how the curls of her hair bobbed as she spoke—something she’d always known Pinkie Pie to have, and couldn’t possibly imagine her without. “Eventually.” She tilted her head to the side, her eyes calm and steady and knowing all at once. “I think you got stronger too.”
Oh.
Twilight dropped her gaze down to her palms, no longer able to meet Pinkie’s gaze. Her eyes felt hot. “I—” Her throat strangled the rest of her sentence into a sob.
But she’s right, isn’t she? It... wasn’t as awful the second time.
Then her train of thought stalled. Wait. Second time?
The wrongness returned, and Twilight finally recognized its source. No one had been in the bathroom that day. Not her brother or her parents or Celestia, and certainly not Pinkie Pie—no one had been in the bathroom. No one had been there to see her at her worst.
“This isn’t real,” she whispered, her voice choked out to a rasp. “Because this isn’t what actually happened.”
Pinkie nodded silently. The look on her face spoke louder than any words ever could.
She knew how this was supposed to end.
A flurry of emotions welled up behind Twilight’s eyes. She had lived the worst day of her life twice over—once by bullies, and once at the hands of Nightmare—and the scars still ached the same as they had when fresh. Bits and pieces of reality flooded back through her memories alongside her silent tears: Celestia, the assembly, the trials, Sunset.
“We have to get out of here,” she croaked. A few rapid blinks cleared her vision, and she cleared her throat. “We’re wasting time, and I don’t know how long Celestia can hold off that monster—”
Pinkie held up a hand to cut her off. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re the last one. And I don’t think time works the same in dreams.”
The last one? Twilight furrowed her brow. “What do you mean by that?”
“About time? Well, I’m pretty sure we haven’t actually been in here for half a school year. But if you meant about being the last one...” Pinkie shrugged and said carefully, “I kinda maybe had to help everyone else out too.”
Twilight stared at her, stunned to silence. The remnants of her assumptions about Pinkie crumbled away to dust. She did this for everyone? Went through five of these terrible dreams?
That’s... incredible.
“Oh, but please don’t try and ask about anyone else,” Pinkie added, oblivious to Twilight’s shock. “This sort of thing is super-duper private, okay?”
“I...” Twilight blinked a few times. “Of course.” She hesitated, then asked, “Um, how much exactly did you see?”
“How much?”
“Of... this.” She gestured around the bathroom, then pointed at herself. “Of my memories.”
Pinkie pursed her lips. “Oh. Well, all of them, I think.”
Twilight wilted. Shame rushed to the tips of her ears, burning like fire. Right. Of course she did.
“Sorry. I was kinda just along for the ride.” Pinkie scratched her cheek with one finger as she spoke, her voice bordering on apologetic.
“Don’t tell anyone else what you saw,” Twilight begged. “Please. I know everyone’s already heard rumours and come up with their own explanations, and I’ve come to terms with that, but I’m just trying to put this behind me—”
Once again Pinkie held up her hand to stop Twilight, this time using her fingertips to draw an ‘X’ in the air over her heart. “Promise I won’t. Cross my heart, hope to fly”—she pulled her hand away and pressed her index finger against the eyelid of her left eye—“stick a cupcake in my eye.”
It was an odd series of gestures seemingly from nowhere. Twilight could only stare in response, utterly confused. “...What?”
“What?” Pinkie asked innocently.
“What was that?”
“Oh!” She repeated the motion, then grinned from ear to ear. “It’s a Pinkie promise—you can’t ever, ever break it.”
Twilight laughed despite herself. “I’ve never seen that before,” she admitted, and raised her right hand in front of her with her pinky finger extended. “I thought a pinky promise was with this.”
“Well, we can do that too if you like.” Pinkie reached over and linked her finger around Twilight’s own, then gave it a gentle squeeze. “There! Doubly promised.”
And then something pulled at Twilight’s heart—an inversion of Nightmare’s all-consuming pressure—and the world dissolved.
It was a bit like waking up, she thought, except that she could still clearly remember every word she’d said to Pinkie in the bathroom, still picture every expression on her face. They didn’t fade away like dreams. Her new memories were real.
Then she blinked, and she was real too. Suddenly Twilight was standing, and in comparison everything from the floor to the air to the clothes on her back felt solid. Things had weight. Things seemed normal.
A quick glance around confirmed it: a spiral staircase in front of her, four shaken-up girls sitting on its steps at various levels, and Pinkie’s finger still intertwined with hers—except now it was so tangible she could feel her pulse beneath her skin. The remnants of a familiar golden glow faded from Pinkie’s arm, and when Twilight let go she could make out a new word scrawled on her wrist.
Optimism.
“Thanks,” Twilight whispered, before even Pinkie had a chance to speak. “For helping me, I mean. You didn’t have to.”
From her seat on the steps Rainbow raised an eyebrow. “Whatd’ya mean?” she asked, a bit gruffly. “You really think Pinkie Pie would leave without you? That any of us would?” She paused. “Okay, wait. You have a case for some of us, I’ll admit—”
And Twilight laughed again, a single, quiet syllable escaping past her lips. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m... glad that you all waited for me.” Somehow, the Rainbow of the present didn’t seem as scary as the Rainbow of her past. They were all slightly different people now, she noticed. Her and Applejack and everyone else. We’ve all grown up.
“Well, duh,” Pinkie snorted, and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “You think I’d go to all the trouble to save someone a seat in English class of all places, just to throw ‘em to the wolves when things get tough?” She blew a raspberry. “‘Course not!”
“I— wait.” Twilight furrowed her brow. “That was on purpose?”
Instead of answering, Pinkie spun on her heel to face the others and smacked her palms together with a loud clap. “Welp! Places to be, stairs to climb, right? Time is real again, if you haven’t noticed!” She darted up the steps and around the others, poking and prodding them to their feet. “C’mon! We’re like, halfway there!”
“Only halfway?!” Rarity made a noise halfway between a groan and a whine, though she didn’t resist when Pinkie yanked her up from where she sat. “How on earth do you know that?”
“Easy.” Pinkie pointed to Applejack, then to Fluttershy, then to herself. “Words.” Then she waved her finger a vague circle at Rainbow, Twilight, and Rarity. “No words.”
“No way,” Rarity hissed.
“Signs sorta point to ‘yes’ on this one, Rare,” Applejack said. She tipped her hat and teased, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be next.”
“Well now you’re just tempting fate!”
Twilight watched as the two dissolved to bickering, and absently thumbed the spot on her own wrist where a word would go. She was still on the outside of their little group, a stranger looking in—but each trial seemed to close the distance between them just a little bit more.
Trials and monsters and golden words. Twilight didn’t want to believe in magic; didn’t want to trust in something she didn’t understand. But as they climbed the staircase she pretended that she could believe, allowing herself to wonder briefly what her word might be.